


Vita Santi Astoranae

by pabbeyrene



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Backstory, Catholic Imagery, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, One Shot, POV Original Character, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, conversion narrative, play 'spot the catholic references' for fun and profit, solaire is a mama's boy and that's ultimately not as heartwarming as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-17 07:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16090478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pabbeyrene/pseuds/pabbeyrene
Summary: Lusene had been married twice and a mother many times over. She loved all her children. But Solaire was special: gentle and happy and kind, as devoted to his mother as she was to him. Until the vision. Until the fasting and the prayer. Until the gods stole him away.





	Vita Santi Astoranae

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I enjoy a lot of the theories and speculation about Solaire's background (especially the Solaire-as-Firstborn theory), in my own personal headcanon I've always found his story the most compelling and narratively interesting if he really is just a random mortal whose background is completely shrouded in mystery. Which I guess is why I proceeded to not only develop a backstory for him, but write and publish a whole fic about it. Hmm. 
> 
> IMPORTANT WARNING: This fic references forms of self-denial and self-harm that, while consistent with real medieval religious practices, I worry might nonetheless be triggering for some readers. I would advise any readers who have struggled with eating disorders to be especially cautious, as there is a scene that involves some description of extreme fasting and attendant weight loss. You can find a more explicit description of this passage in the end notes.

**Prime**

One to inherit and one to fight and one to pray. That was what they said about sons: after an heir there had to be spares, and if the spares ultimately _remained_  spares then they had to find something to do. So they studied or they trained.

On the day Lusene’s third son was born, he already had two strong and healthy older brothers waiting for him in the rooms below. Barring extraordinary accident, there would be no titles or lands for Solaire. His father’s modest holdings furnished hardly enough for one son, let alone three. And Lusene’s second-oldest was already brash and brave, forever sporting bumps and bruises from his latest ill-planned misadventure. So perhaps this one would be a scholar, she thought as she held her new child close, contentedly learning the shape of his face, his little hands. A monk or priest or philosopher. The bright morning sunlight relaxed into the lazy gold of afternoon as the midwives fussed and cleaned and sent out for the wet nurse, and as Lusene’s husband was finally allowed in to meet his new son. Lusene wouldn’t mind having a studious, well-behaved little boy. The other two were their father’s: maybe this one could be hers.

Solaire was as strong and hearty as his siblings, with a lusty cry and a sweet smile that made you immediately forgive him for it. He was quick to walk and quick to talk. But he was only two when the darksign appeared on her husband's arm; he would not be able to remember his father. His sister was still in Lusene’s belly when she and her husband said their tearful goodbyes. Her husband was trying hard to be strong for her, to accept his fate gracefully, to set an example for his sons. He asked them not to follow as he left to surrender himself to the asylum-keepers.

In the sad still aftermath of his departure, she gathered her children around her. Solaire was still small enough to sit on her lap, and she held him close.

**Terce**

The day was so warm and so beautiful that Lusene decided she and the children would hear mass in the town cathedral rather than the castle’s chapel: a considerable undertaking, to be sure, with all the children and nurses, but she and her new husband agreed it was good to be seen in the town at times. And on the slow walk back they stopped on a fine hill with a view of the town’s roofs and the cathedral’s spires. Lusene set the children loose to work off some of the energy they’d built up sitting in the stuffy cathedral listening to the stuffier priest, and she sat herself under the shady boughs of a fine old oak.

As his siblings and step-siblings shrieked and chased each other and got themselves thoroughly soaked in the little stream, Solaire wandered up the hill towards his mother and the new wet nurse. Lusene could see he was in one of his rare pensive moods.

“Don’t you want to go play?” she asked, smoothing his golden hair back from his head.

“Maybe later.” Solaire peered at his new half-brother suckling in the nurse’s arms. “May I hold him?”

“After he’s finished. You wouldn’t like it if someone interrupted your lunch, would you?”

Solaire shrugged. “I’m good when I hold him though. I’m gentle.”

“You’re very good with him, yes. You listen well. Wait until he’s finished his meal.”

Solaire plopped down and started methodically ripping up the grass by his chubby little legs. On most days he would have been, if not the loudest of the bunch playing down the slope, certainly well in the running for the title. But he did have these moods, every once in a while, when he got very quiet and thoughtful and still. Lusene didn’t see any harm in indulging them. She reached out and rubbed his cheek.

“Do you like coming to town for the service?”

He shrugged, nodded. Though he kept ripping up the grass, his gaze was trained up and out, towards the town below. “The priest’s boring, though.”

“Is he as boring as Brother Gregorius? Come here, sweetness,” she added, reaching out and drawing him close to nestle against her side. His brothers were too big for coddling now, and even his little sister squirmed and grew bored when held in place for too long. But Solaire never minded. He sank his weight against her now and let her stroke his hair. His face was wrinkled in concentration as he considered her question.

Finally he concluded, “Worse.”

Lusene laughed. “Well maybe now you’ll be thankful when we hear mass at home.”

“I hate going to mass. It’s boring. Why do we have to?”

“Because we have to show the gods that we’re thankful, and ask them to help us,” she said patiently, and playfully tugged on a lock of his hair. “The gods like it when you go to mass, even if you don’t. Did you hear what the priest said about Lord Gwyn?”

“The gods’re boring. Lord Gwyn’s boring. And he’s mean, if he wants us to be stuck inside on a beautiful day –”

“Solaire,” Lusene said sharply. She withdrew her hand and sat upright so that she could look him in the eyes. “We don’t talk about the gods that way.”

Solaire flinched and looked at her with innocent surprise: he wasn’t used to hearing his mother angry.

“You don’t need to love all the gods, though it’s good to try,” Lusene continued. “But you need to respect and honor them. Before Lord Gwyn the whole world was mist. No day or night, no sun or moon, no rain or wind. This beautiful day wouldn’t exist without Lord Gwyn. Don’t you think it’s fair, then, to give part of it to him?”

“Yes,” Solaire mumbled.

“And do you think it’s right to call him mean and boring for it?”

“No.”

Lusene settled back against the tree’s trunk. “Then you just remember that the next time you’re feeling bored in church. And you apologize to Lord Gwyn when you say your prayers tonight, and all the other gods while you’re at it.”

_“All_ of them? One by one?”

“Yes,” Lusene said. That wasn’t quite what she’d meant, but it would be a fitting penance. “All of them. You may ask Brother Gregorius for help if you can’t remember.”

Solaire let out a sigh and went back to pulling up the grass. It was her own fault, Lusene thought regretfully, after she’d sent up her own silent prayer apologizing for her son’s words: let a child speak disrespectfully about the gods’ servants and you could hardly be surprised when he started speaking disrespectfully about the gods themselves. It was just so difficult to be strict with Solaire, for all his mischief and high spirits. He had such a sweet face, and such a gentle heart: as much trouble as he got into with his siblings and step-siblings and the other castle children, he could never abide real cruelty. It had been scarcely a year ago when he’d run to her wailing that the other children had started crushing all the insects they’d been collecting, just to see what would happen.

“We were supposed to take  _care_ of them,” he’d sobbed, “we were going to build them a little village, and now they’re  _k-killing_ them!” And he’d borne his fair share of teasing from the other children for being so soft about a bunch of bugs, but he’d held firm – for a few days at least, after which he’d begun playing with them again as if nothing had happened. But four days for a child of five years might as well be a lifetime.

A farmer was riding along the path at the base of the hill. Solaire saw him and perked up, and turned to look at his mother imploringly. Horses: the eternal obsession. It wasn’t as though their own stables were bare, and lords knew Solaire spent plenty of time begging the stable boys to let him help them in their chores, but every time he spotted one in public you’d think it was the first he’d ever seen.

“Go get your sister first,” Lusene said firmly. “She’s being very brave but I don’t believe she really wants to have that mouse dropped down her dress.”

And Solaire was off, gods and new brother both forgotten for the time being: he charged to his sister’s rescue, raced down the hill to harass the poor farmer and his nag, and then leapt effortlessly into the other children’s play. He wanted to be Artorias, but so did everyone else; he accepted the role of Gough with minimal complaining. Soon enough he was running and yelling and laughing with the rest of them, his thoughtful mood abandoned along with the oak tree’s shade.

**Sext**

Brother Gregorius wanted to talk about Solaire again.

“It’s not that he’s willful,” the old Thorolundian puffed as he and Lusene strolled along the gallery. “I think he really  _wants_ to learn. The trouble is that he wants to do everything else just a bit more. I see him –”

The door in the hall below pushed open and the subject of their conversation blew in with the winter air, laughing in the company of a gaggle of other young men and women. Though he had yet to reach his fifteenth year, Solaire stood head-and-shoulders above his stepsiblings and the steward’s children, and his sister looked likely to match him soon enough; their golden hair gleamed in the pale sunlight. Solaire stamped the snow from his boots and shook the water from his cloak. Looking up, he saw his mother and tutor and raised his hand in a cheery wave; Lusene returned it and Gregorius gave a distressed puff.

As the group headed for the roaring fire of the great hall, he rediscovered his train of thought.

“I see him dedicate himself to the work, really dedicate himself,” Gregorius said. “More because he wants to please me than because he really cares for it, I think, but never mind that. And then in a matter of days it’s all forgotten and he’s back to staring out the window and drawing little faces on his parchment. Very  _expensive_ parchment, I might add.”

“Perhaps we should move your classroom,” Lusene said, amused. “A room without a view of the training yard might be more conducive to his studies.”

Another puff. “I don’t expect miracles from the boy. The life of the mind doesn’t suit everyone. But  _discipline_ , now that’s something we all require – as well as a grasp of certain  _fundamental_ facts and figures –”

The old monk prattled on as a gust of freezing wind shook the drafty glass windows. Lusene drew her fur-lined cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

It was all true, what Gregorius was saying: Solaire excelled out in the training yard, in combat and riding lessons, and was entirely indifferent at just about everything else, including his studies. Figures and calculation quite eluded him, as did the ancient tongues of Lordran and Astora; even his competency with reading and writing modern Astoran was middling at best. He had no head for the strictures of logic and his interest in history only extended as far as his old nursemaid’s tales about the Knights of Gwyn.

As for rhetoric, though – he would never produce anything to satisfy Gregorius in its formal structure, but his smile and easy manner made that topic, at least, quite obsolete. He was generous and always laughing, and his younger half-siblings fairly worshiped him. And in spite of gangly limbs and a spotty face, there were enough hints in his appearance of the handsome man he would become to make him quite popular among the young women of the castle, and a few of the young men besides. He for his part was losing his heart to someone new almost every week; Lusene was privately bracing herself for the day he would come to her with the embarrassed admission that Lady Gwynevere had seen fit to bless him and his latest paramour. Her husband’s oldest son had already had that shamefaced conversation with his father, the result of which had been a handsome settlement for the girl in question and a pretty little child who always received an extra sweet roll from her lord when she lined up with the other children on Gwynevere’s Day. And Lusene couldn’t help but admit that the thought of a little golden-haired grandchild to bounce on her knee was not entirely an unwelcome one. When a bastard’s father had no hope of inheritance certain concessions could be made.

Her husband had been gently hinting for years now that it might be time to send Solaire off to be educated with another noble family of the region, as his brothers had done before him. Such connections were especially important for a young man who would have to make his own way in the world, and it would do the boy good to see a bit more of that world before he was grown. It was the done thing, of course, but Lusene had never done more than outwardly agree and then take no action at all. Solaire was happy here. She was happy with him here. And it wasn’t as though his stepfather wasn’t fond of the boy: he got more pleasure and pride out of Solaire’s skill with a sword than anyone.

“And while he is never quite _remiss_  in his devotions,” Gregorius was saying, “and is hardly what one could call impious, his utter lack of interest in matters theological does seem to me somewhat troublesome –”

“Yes,” said Lusene absently. “You’re quite right, of course, Brother. Something really must be done. Shall we take some mulled cider below? I’m really quite chilled.”

She smiled pleasantly at him, and led the way down the curving staircase.

**Nones**

It was a sweet mellow evening in early spring when Solaire came staggering back through the castle gates with a look on his face that Lusene had never seen before. The light of the setting sun was still painting the sky pink and orange, and day’s warm breezes were just beginning to chill. Lusene had been called down to the stables: her husband was away, and so when Solaire’s horse came wandering back home on its own, without its rider, she alone was sent for. The horse seemed quite unhurt and showed no signs of distress, which was somehow all the more alarming: Solaire would never have abandoned his beloved Sif, a sixteenth-birthday present from his stepfather. But she had only barely been apprised of these details, and fear was just beginning to truly grip her, when in walked Solaire.

He was moving oddly, unsteadily, as he came through the gate, his hand brushing the wall for balance. His clothes were disheveled, hair unbound, and his gaze slid right over them as he moved toward the keep: Lusene wondered for a moment if he was drunk. She called his name, and he stopped, seeming to see her for the first time.

“Mother,” he said, and he smiled. It was a warm smile, joyous even, but for all that Solaire was always smiling Lusene had never seen its like on his face before.

“Solaire,” Lusene repeated, reaching up to touch his face, to look for any sign of hurt – reaching far, for her son was quite a man now. “What’s happened? You frightened us –”

“Did I? I’m terribly sorry.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. The action was oddly fervent, full of joy and delight, as if  _she_ were the one who’d come home to  _him_ , and as if the absence had been a matter of years and not of hours.

“What happened?” she said again. “Where is your cloak – Solaire, where are your  _boots?”_ He was barefoot, one of his feet bleeding and both filthy.

“Mother,” he repeated, still holding her by the arms, still smiling. He was looking at her and yet he wasn’t: he was looking past her, through her, beyond her. “The most wonderful thing has happened. Oh, Mother, bless you, and bless the Lords. Where is Brother Gregorius? I must speak to him.”

“First tell me what’s happened – Solaire, come back!” But after stooping to kiss her again, he was moving once more across the courtyard, and didn’t seem to hear her calling. She turned to look at the grooms, who had already schooled their expressions into careful neutrality, and the stable boys, who were openly gaping; Sif swished his tail and began nosing about for oats.

She turned back to watch her son disappear into the castle, and as the door swung shut behind him, something cold and dreadful began to curl its fingers around her heart.

**Vespers**

“It’s really extraordinary,” said Brother Gregorius. “Such dedication, such  _fervor_  –”

“But has he  _said_ anything about what happened?” Lusene snapped.

“No, not a word.”

“And what, exactly, do the two of you speak about?”

Gregorius shrugged. “Theology. A bit of history, geography. Astronomy too, which he never showed a lick of interest in before. But mainly theology. Nothing particularly advanced,” he added, in response to her frustrated look. “Remedial, mostly, at this point. But at this rate he’ll be caught up quite quickly.” He reached for his wine, took a contented sip. “It’s not as though he has any head for the stuff, any more than he did before. He’s just determined to apply himself now, and that makes all the difference.”

“And was it  _you_ who gave him the idea for this –” She lowered her voice, though she wasn’t sure why. “This  _fasting_ nonsense?”

“Of course not. Lords forgive me for it, but I’m not quite what you’d call an ascetic.” He patted his ample belly, took another sip of the fine Carim wine. “I find there are better ways to appreciate the gods’ gifts.”

Lusene reached for her own wine reflexively, took a nervous gulp. The fire in Gregorius’ chamber was banked low, only a few coals at this point, and that more for light than for warmth; the nights were growing milder all the time as Astora drew happily towards its brief summer. Still, she felt that she carried a chill about with her all the time these days.

“My dear lady,” said Gregorius, in an uncommonly gentle tone, as he watched her anxiously smooth her gown over her lap. “Your son is not the first young man to experience a sudden burst of religious zeal. Cast a stone from the top of the world and you could hardly fail to hit a village where some person hadn’t believed at the age of fourteen or sixteen or twenty that they’d spend the rest of their lives in sackcloth and ash. I believe you’ll find most of them living peacefully, married with children and a trade and thinking of the gods only on holy days. Much as I enjoy my young master’s newfound interest in my vocation, I hardly expect to find this passion persisting through the end of the summer, let alone the end of the year.”

Lusene met his eyes, uncomfortably reminded that for all his blustering Gregorius really was not quite an idiot.

“Do you really think so? Does he seem – I don’t know – sincere?”

“Sincere, certainly. But he’s always been quite a sincere young man. I’ll admit –” He leaned forward to refill his glass – “I’d certainly be glad to win an adherent to the Way of White. But frankly, my lady, I don’t like my odds.”

Lusene gazed restlessly out the window. She wanted to be comforted, and yet her sense of foreboding remained.

Solaire had told her about this fast of his only that morning, when she had at last tracked him down and demanded to know why he hadn’t appeared at meals for the last day and a half.

“I ought to join you,” he’d said sadly, after he’d given his answer. “But I’m not strong enough to resist the temptation just now. Brother Gregorius said I shouldn’t fast over three days to start, so I’ll join you again soon. And then when I’ve grown stronger in my faith I’ll be able to sit with you at meals even while I’m fasting.” And he had smiled, as if she might find this reassuring.

“But – surely you – you drink something at least, don’t you?” She’d reached out to brush his hair behind his ear, as if to make sure this was real and not some strange dream.

“Oh yes, of course. A glass of water at sunrise and sunset.”

“Solaire, sweetness,” she’d said, despairing, “what do you  _do_ in there while you fast?”

“I pray, Mother. I pray.”

He’d done nothing but pray since he’d returned from the countryside that evening: pray, and sit in lengthy discussions with Gregorius, books and scrolls spilled across the table. He’d abandoned his training, hadn’t touched his weapons or armor since that night: he made brief visits to Sif in the stables, but he’d entrusted the care of him to his favorite groom. Though kind as ever with his youngest siblings, he now gently refused to join in their games. The strange joy that had illuminated him that night had dissipated – or rather, perhaps, had changed its form. Though he seemed driven now by equally fervent feeling, her sweet smiling son had become solemn and serious; he often spoke as if he felt wracked by guilt, when he spoke at all. He spent endless hours in his room and in the chapel, absorbed in prayer. He rose with the sun and stayed up late into the night, head bowed, hands clasped, murmuring passionate pleas. When Lusene tried to listen she could never make out what he was saying, though once or twice she thought he might have been weeping.

His fast ended and he returned to the dining table, but he ate sparingly now, not with his hearty appetite of old. He had never cared much for fashion, but now he dressed more like a peasant than a nobleman's son, in plain rough cloth. His sessions with Gregorius grew longer, more intense; the monk dutifully kept Lusene apprised of their conversations, though he did increasingly badly at concealing his pleasure in Solaire’s continued devotion. They spoke of the Lords, and especially of Gwyn and his family; of the war against the dragons, and the linking of the First Flame, and the curse of the undead. Solaire begged now to resume his lessons in the ancient language of Lordran, so that he could read the texts for himself, and to begin lessons in astronomy and cosmology – these latter requests dampening Gregorius’ enthusiasm slightly, as they required him to leave his comfortable bed in the middle of the night to squint up at the stars.

And through it all Solaire continued his fasting and his praying. He began to shed weight, his thin and wasted look only enhancing his newly solemn expression. Half-mad with fear, Lusene on more than one occasion cornered him outside the chapel or in his room and begged him to take some food, an apple, a crust of bread: “Don’t starve yourself to death under your mother’s eyes,” she begged at last, beginning to sob, which made him hug her tightly and agree to a few bites of bread. She could feel his ribs through his thin shirt.

But when she saw his sorrowful guilty expression after he swallowed the bread and water, her fear only increased. His fast ended as scheduled two days later, and he began to eat again. But while he was praying in the chapel, Lusene crept into his bedroom and began to search. She opened drawers and cabinets, not letting herself admit what she feared she might find –  _a hairshirt, a sharp metal cilice, a flagellant’s whip_ – she found nothing, but some drawers were locked, and she didn’t have the key. There was a prayer bench with an illuminated history of the Lords open upon it: she felt a sudden wild urge to rip out the pages.

_Give him back to me,_ she thought, looking at Gwyn’s painted face.  _You gave up your son but you can’t have mine. You give him back to me._ It was the closest she’d come to a prayer in months.

**Compline**

And then it was over. Just like that: Solaire was standing one morning in the gallery, gazing out through the windows with a gentle smile on his face. He heard her approach, took her hands in his.

“I am well, Mother,” he said, in a voice that sounded like a sigh. “I understand now, and I am well.”

He returned to the dining table with a vigorous appetite. He still rose early to pray, and still dedicated time to meet with Gregorius and dive deeper into the holy mysteries; but he now cheerfully joined his younger siblings in their games and his older siblings in their lively discussions. He smiled and he laughed. As his strength returned, he took up his training again with a new zeal. Whereas before he’d pursued swordsmanship for the pure pleasure of it, now he seemed driven to mastery. He spent long hours down in the yard, and soon it wasn’t clear whether the sword master was putting him through his paces, or vice versa: after every exercise, every drill, Solaire insisted that the master walk him through it again and again until he wasn’t just excellent but perfect. He trained with weights, and ran long distances through every kind of weather.

Lusene tried to be comforted. Her son was smiling and happy again, warm and well-dressed and well-fed. But some part of her whispered that it wasn’t the same smile, wasn’t the same laugh: that these now had more in common with his radiant joy on the night he’d stumbled in past the stables. Before, his smile had flickered and burst like sparks from a hearth. Now it beamed like a steady unceasing light.

Still, when she found him one night in the courtyard, wishing a good evening to one of the grooms' sisters – a pretty young thing who blushed and beamed when he kissed her hand – she felt for a moment like all might be well.

“Careful, my dear,” she chided him, smiling, as he offered his arm to escort her back inside. “You know how we treasure our grandchildren, but things being as they are your stepfather and I would prefer not that you not give us any just yet.”

Solaire laughed. “No need to worry about that, Mother,” he said earnestly, patting her hand. “I’ve taken a vow of chastity.”

**Matins**

One morning Lusene could stand the curiosity no longer. She knew that Solaire rose at dawn to pray, but recently Gregorius had mentioned that he went out somewhere on the grounds, rather than remaining in his room. And Lusene had been struck by the irrational conviction that if she could only find out where he went and what he did, that she could somehow solve the whole mystery. That she could make everything right.

So in the early hours of a brisk fall morning, she wrapped herself in a cloak and followed her son as he slipped out of the gates and set off down the path to the east. She wore her soft slippers, and was careful to stay well behind. Her misty breath curled away from her in the frozen air, vanishing up toward the heavens, and in the hushed chilled silence of the world before dawn, she prayed. To Gwynevere, the mother, to whom she had always turned in times of need; to the Dark Sun, the mysterious daughter who watched even now from above; to Velka, who saw her sins of doubt and blasphemy and might have mercy on a penitent; to the Witch who had daughters and to Lloyd who was called Allfather and to the long-lost Firstborn of whom little was known and less was said, and to whom she, heretic, had begun to pray as the god of lost sons.

Solaire crested a hill and stopped. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and knelt, head bowed, with its hilt clasped in its hands and its point upon the ground. A grove of trees here offered some cover and Lusene stood and watched, one hand pressed to the rough bark. He was speaking, but she couldn’t hear what he said.

The sky turned pale. Solaire’s hill offered a clear view of the horizon: as the sun began to edge above the darkness his shoulders hunched and he became more fervent in his prayer. Its light swept across the misty land below, crept up upon the hill. When it at last broke over Solaire, he raised his head. And Lusene could see only a sliver of his face, from where she stood, but that was all she needed. There were tears coursing from his eyes, glittering in the light, not of sorrow or of guilt, but of exquisite ecstasy: she knew, she could tell, because he was her son, and she knew what he looked like when he sorrowed and when he smiled. But she had never known until now what he looked like when gripped with the sublimest joy.

Solaire lifted his sword, held flat across his hands, and raised it toward the sun – an offering – his shoulders shaking with ecstatic sobs. When the sun at last had cleared the horizon he rested his sword reverently upon the grass, stood, and raised his arms above his head: first she thought he was reaching out as if to hold it, but as he stood upon the tips of his toes with his face tilted toward the light she realized that the gesture represented not an embrace but a communion.

She sank to her knees, watching this, the chill dew soaking through her cloak and gown. Solaire stayed in the reverent position for only a moment, and then knelt to retrieve his sword. He turned back down the path, smiling, wiping away tears. And Lusene pressed her face against the tree’s cold bark and listened to her ragged breaths.

**Lauds**

Somehow she knew that something was wrong. Perhaps it was Gwynevere or the Firstborn, answering her prayers. Perhaps it was her own intuition. But she rose early that day, dressed quickly, slipped down the stairs and out the door into the pale predawn light.

“Mother,” said Solaire. He was in the stables, dressed in his armor and riding gear, saddling Sif. He held out his hands for her, smiled a beatific smile. “The gods sent you.”

Lusene drew closer and reached out for his hands hesitantly, frightened. She looked at Sif, who had been made ready for a long journey; at the saddlebags hanging from his sides, bulging with supplies.

“Solaire, what are you doing? Where are you going?”

He clasped her hands firmly. “I’m leaving.” His voice was gentle.

Her own was small, breathy. “Leaving? Where? For how long?”

“I’m leaving,” he repeated. “I’m going to Lordran.”

Lusene gasped sharply, pulled her hands automatically to cover her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Solaire,” she said, “no – the darksign?”

He pulled her hands away, wiped her cheeks dry. “No,” he said tenderly. “No, not yet. But I will.”

“You – will?”

“I’m going to become undead, Mother. There are ways it can be done. Miracles, curses – whatever you choose to call them, it’s all one to me. I’m going to become undead and I’m going to travel to the land of the ancient Lords.”

She shook her head, uncomprehending. He laughed.

“I must sound mad,” he said. “Maybe I am mad! But if I am Lord Gwyn made me so. Mother – Mother.” His face was serious now, yet animated by that same steady radiant joy that she had come to recognize. “He spoke to me. That night, when you met me here, when Sif came back before me – he  _spoke_ to me.”

“Who did?” she whispered.

“Lord Gwyn. I had gone out for a ride, just over the hill, and I was in a low mood, feeling – useless, feeling lost. And I dismounted, and went to rest for a moment in the shade of a tree, and then I heard a voice like a child’s saying,  _Look up!_ And I looked around, wondering if there was a child nearby, playing a game: but I saw no one, and the voice said again,  _Look up!_ And I looked up: and I didn’t see the leaves of the tree, but I saw my sun.”

“Your  _son?”_

“Yes – my sun –” He lowered his gaze, his face animated, obviously searching for the words. “Not  _the_ sun, but  _my_ sun – blazing there – bigger than the sky, bigger than the world, and it spoke to me –  _he_ spoke to me – Mother, Mother, I don’t have the words, all the scholars and all the texts don’t have words, believe me, I’ve searched – but I  _saw it_. I should have gone blind from the glory of it. And for the first time I understood its majesty,  _his_ majesty, and I heard him speak not with my ears but with my soul, my very soul. He spoke to me –  _here_ –” Solaire pressed a hand to his heart.

“And then I awoke, and it was near twilight, and Sif was gone, and so I walked home. But from that moment, everything I saw was illuminated with Gwyn’s holy light – the world was born anew in my eyes – oh, Mother, if you could see yourself how I see you! But from that night the more I saw the more I felt myself unworthy of it, and unable to understand why Gwyn had shown me what he did. So I fasted and I prayed. And little by little he revealed his marvelous plan for me: he showed my that my sun was waiting for me in Lordran, and that it was my destiny to find it.”

Lusene was trembling.

“And so now I go to Gwyn’s land,” Solaire said, “and I find my sun. This is my purpose, Mother.” His face was shining. “This is what I was born to do.”

“No,” Lusene said. She reached up to touch his face with a shaking hand. “No, no. I was there. When you were born. I’m your  _mother._ I was there. You weren’t born for this. You were – you were –”

Her voice broke.

“You were  _mine.”_

Solaire wrapped her tightly in his arms. “Oh, Mother, don’t weep. Don’t weep for me. All will be well.” The metal of his armor was cold but she could hear his heart beating beneath it, steady and strong. “Look to the gods, and they will provide for you. I’m going to my destiny: I’ve been blessed beyond measure. There’s no cause to weep for me.”

He gently disentangled himself from her grip and bent to kiss her forehead.

“You will be with me always,” he said tenderly. And then he took Sif’s reins, and led him into the courtyard, and mounted. She stumbled after him. He turned and raised his hand: she could hardly see him through her tears. His blurred shape faded before her, out the gates, down the path: gone.

She sank to the ground. The sun rose, the castle awakened: staff and servants found her there, urged her to stand and then simply to accept a sip of water; a serving girl was sent running to fetch her husband. She heard him speaking very distantly, felt him raise her to her feet and guide her through the doors. He tried to lead her back to her chambers, but she stopped at the base of the stairs that led to her son’s room, and mounted them.

The bed was neatly made; a servant, unaware of Solaire’s departure, had been in to stoke the fire. The illuminated history was still open on the stand. She looked at the page, at Gwyn’s face and crown and the fire in his hand all limned with gold.

With a cry, she ripped the page from the book, and cast it into the flame.

**Author's Note:**

> After a mysterious religious experience, Solaire decides to begin abstaining from food for specific, predetermined periods of time as part of a new ascetic practice. Even in between fasting periods, he limits his food intake. He begins to lose weight and when he gives in to his mother's insistence that he eat, his seems to feel guilty afterwards. His mother worries that he is starving himself and moreover that he may be injuring himself in secret, though these fears are never confirmed. After some time Solaire returns to his old eating habits of his own volition.


End file.
